


Don't Bring a Knife to a Dragon Fight

by mountainsbeyondmountains



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fix-It, Pyromania, Season 8 speculation, daenerys fans don't read, sansa stark's cover of "don't hurt yourself"
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-30
Updated: 2017-09-18
Packaged: 2018-12-21 15:28:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11947167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mountainsbeyondmountains/pseuds/mountainsbeyondmountains
Summary: "I gave them a choice. They made it." -Daenerys, s7ep5





	1. Chapter 1

The part that hurts the most- though she's endured worse, far worse- is that he's wearing the cloak she gave him. Even at a distance, standing high on the ramparts of Winterfell like she is, Sansa recognizes it. It's a clear day. She can see them approaching along the King's Road from miles away, with no clouds or snow or sleet to obstruct her view. It's so unlike the first time she and Jon stood at this very same place, with the first snowfall of the season gently landing on her hair, her furs, her eyelashes, her cheeks, her lips. The day he caressed her cheek with a tenderness she used to dream about, a tenderness she'd thought she forgotten. They'd sworn to trust each other that day, and how had Jon honored that promise?

Gods, she'd spent  _hours_ sewing that stupid cloak for him. She'd strained her eyes in the weak sputtering candlelight of Castle Black. Her fingers had nearly frozen to the needle, and for what? She'd been so eager to call him a Stark, to atone for all her earlier cruelty, but now she takes it all back. He's no Stark. He doesn't deserve the crown her brother died for. If she could, Sansa would call him every vicious word of their youth, tenfold times over, or maybe she'd never deign speak to him again. 

The Warden of the North and the Dragon Queen ride side by side, such a picturesque pair. They lead the legions upon legions of Unsullied and Dothraki, figures Sansa never thought she would see approaching her home. And she'd been concerned with food shortages before- how will they feed such a multitude, especially since Daenerys burnt the bounty of the Reach?

"Milady, shall we open the gate?" a guard asks tentatively. 

Sansa shakes her head. "No." She wonders how Jon will react. Will he contemplate a reasonable plan, or fall prey to his impulses yet again? He always did have a tendency to follow heart over head- or rather, cock over head, considering his decisions upon going south. Sansa remembers the last time he tried to force entry into these very gates. Only shards and splinters were left of the barrier when he was done. 

She watches them pace and ruminate, forced to wait outside. The spectacle of it all, the glorious majesty of their arrival has been rather ruined. Good. Eventually, Jon gets off his horse- though not before leaning over to placate his precious Daenerys, Sansa sees- and treats with the sentries. The guard returns. "Milady, his Grace-"

"He's not a king anymore, is he?"

"Your half-brother, then. He requests a parlay. Peaceable, he says."

"Very well." It would make her seem unyielding to not indulge this attempt of his at diplomacy. Of course, his last venture at negotiating didn't end quite well, did it? Jon was meant to make clear the North's autonomy, and instead he bent the knee. Sansa can only hope he attains his goals just as effectively this time around. "My brother and my sister will accompany me."

***

"You stand before the ruler of the Seven Kingdoms, Daenerys Targaryen, Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Protector of the Realm, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Mother of Dragons, the Unburnt, the Breaker of Chains."

She's rather shorter than Sansa expected. Her imperious expression is not unfamiliar, though. Sansa's seen it before- on Joffrey's face, on Cersei's. Daenerys seems to be waiting for Sansa to curtsey, or kneel right here in the snow- as if Sansa would really ruin her dress by doing such an idiotic thing. 

Arya dashes forward without warning, into her brother's arms. Sansa doesn't begrudge them the happiness of their reunion, despite the inauspicious circumstances. Seeing her little sister so uninhibited, even for a moment, cheers Sansa. Perhaps things hadn't changed as much as she'd thought. Jon, for his part, looks astounded. "Arya, when I heard you were alive, I couldn't believe it."

"You really think anyone could kill me?" she smiles in return. 

"Still have Needle, I see."

"And I know more now than just  _stick them with the pointy end._ "

Jon turns towards Bran, who remains predictably impassive. "Bran. You look like Father."

"I have things to tell you, Jon."

Daenerys clears her throat indignantly. "I believe we're here to discuss your bending the knee. It would be best for you to follow your half-brother's example."

Arya steps back from Jon, and in her expression, Sansa sees the ferocity that was so recently trained on herself. Arya does not brook well with betrayal of any kind. "Jon, how could you?"

"Daenerys is a good queen. A kind and just ruler, not at all like her father. She only wants to help protect the north, and we owe it to her to acknowledge the validity of her claim." Jon's words have a slightly rehearsed quality to Sansa's trained ear, and some might not be able to catch it, but Sansa sees the nervousness in his eyes. He's unsure- of what he just said? Of Daenerys? Or of how his family will react?

"Your armies are welcome to camp outside the castle, beside the bulk of the northern troops and the Knights of the Vale. I will try my best to provide for their needs. We welcome their contribution to the defense of not only the north, but of the entire realm. And I will permit certain members of your retinue within the walls of Winterfell. Lady Brienne, of course, seeing as she serves as my family's sworn shield. Sandor Clegane, Ser Davos, both Lannister brothers, and King Robert's bastard Gendry Waters are invited inside as well," Sansa says. She tries to sound like her lady mother, smooth and polished by the river of experience. 

"What of your brother and myself? I am your  _queen,_ you can't possibly think to deny me entry."

"We know no queen but the queen in the north whose name is Stark," Arya murmurs, and even Sansa is surprised when she moves away from Jon and stands beside her siblings. Sansa places a grateful hand on her sister's shoulder. 

Daenerys near trembles with fury. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"Jon may have bent the knee, but we have not. The lords of the North, the Vale, and the Riverlands stand with us," Bran says. 

"One of my dragons may have already given its life for you ungrateful northerners, but don't think I will not hesitate to turn all the fire and blood that remains to me on Winterfell, Lady Stark. My dragons will arrive by nightfall, and if we have not been allowed in by then, you will suffer the fate of all traitors."

Jon becomes aghast. _So much for kindness and justice_ , Sansa thinks. He protests, grasping the queen's white-clad arm, "Daenerys, you can't-"

"You do not tell me what I can or cannot do, Jon Snow. I have always relied on myself. I have turned my attentions away from the throne that is my _birthright_ to come here. I will not be belittled or insulted. None of you know the struggles I've been through. I've been raped, defiled, betrayed-"

"You're not the only one here who has undergone trials," Sansa cuts her off. "I can assure you of that. Consider this, Your Grace. The north defeated the White Walkers once before, without the aid of dragons. And when this fight is done- if you've harmed any Starks on your path to the throne, the north will remember. Targaryen rule has brought nothing but fire and blood here, and we will not kneel again."

***


	2. Chapter 2

_She didn't mean it. She didn't mean it._ Jon's thoughts pulse this refrain as he and Daenerys step a short distance away, out of his half-siblings' range.  _She didn't mean it._ But Jon has lost all ability to lie even to himself now. At least he knows what he has to do to try and remedy the disaster that just occurred. He can't see his family burn like their grandfather did. Jon has heard there was no bones of Rickard Stark's to lay in the crypts of Winterfell. Just ash indistinguishable from the wind. "Daenerys, let me speak to them alone. I can persuade them."

There's not just concern for his well being in her eyes when she asks, "Are you sure you'll be safe with them?"

"Of course I will be. They're my family."

"They're my enemies currently.  _Our_ enemies." 

Does she really expect his own kin to harm him? He went to war for Sansa, he gifted Arya with Needle, he sat by Bran's bedside. Jon remembers a rumor he heard, a rumor he tried to ignore, about a crown and a command. The fate of the second Targaryen heir. Privately, Jon wonders if Daenerys had the same strange cool bloodlust in her face then, when she killed her brother, as she does now, contemplating killing Jon's siblings. 

***

He doesn't know what to say as he approaches them. The three of them form a cohesive unit, and Jon feels like a child again, unwanted, shunted to the back of the great hall to watch his family without him. Arya is a woman now. He thought she'd stay young, somehow, that she'd still have a cut lip and dirt, blisters on her hands. As for Bran- Bran is something else entirely. The wise little boy has become otherworldly. And Sansa. Jon recalls their last reunion, how she'd clutched at him like he was some salvation. She'd nuzzled her face against his in a wolf gesture. If Melisandre's vows to him had ever felt true to Jon, it was then. When Sansa had depended on him, he'd felt like he almost could be a hero from a song, the Prince that was Promised. Now she's so obviously the queen she was always meant to be, impeccably regal, without ever having to proclaim her birthright and boast about herself. 

Finally Arya speaks first. "Please say it was all a ruse, Jon. That you didn't bend the knee. That you didn't give the north to that Targaryen." There's yearning in her voice, her face, a hope he'll confirm that her faith in him is not unfounded. Not a day before, Jon would have defended his decision. Now he's not so certain. The ghosts before him have replaced his resolve with doubt.

"It was the right thing to do," he says. It  _had_ seemed like the right thing to do. He only ever wanted to do the right thing, like his father had taught him. With the threat of the Night King imprinted so freshly in his mind, the petty squabbles over titles and thrones were nothing at the time. But if they win this war, what kind of world will Daenerys rule over? Will there be a Winterfell to return home to? Will she let him return home at all? When Jon says, "She has dragons," he can't tell if he's still maintaining his choice, or if he's simply coming to terms with the concept that Daenerys might be just as dangerous as the Others. 

"She's not the only one with dragons," Bran utters cryptically. "Your expedition beyond the wall, Jon. The dragon that fell. The Night King resurrected it, and the Wall has fallen."

The Wall... the Wall his friends had given their lives in service to, the Wall  _Jon_ had given his life for, gone? He would have thought it would stand long after any dragons or wights or humans were long vanquished. But that was nothing compared to the idea of a wight dragon, straight out of Old Nan's stories. Would it breathe ice or fire? Jon glances at the sky, as if it might already be overhead. Only the old gods know if it might be winging its way towards them even now. "Don't you see?" he says. "Now more than ever we need to stand together. If that means bending the knee, so be it! Putting aside our pride is the only way we'll survive!"

"No, don't  _you_ see? How is she any better than this Night King?" Sansa speaks for the first time. Her tone is frostbitten and blazing simultaneously. "Why won't  _she_ band together? She has the power to help save lives but she only deems those lives worth saving if they subjugate themselves to her? It seems to me she should put aside her pride. Why are you begging us to bend the knee instead of begging her not to kill us?"

It's like she's expressed all the lingering misgivings Jon has tried to suppress ever since his initial encounter with Daenerys. Jon has no way to argue with her except, "Please bend the knee. Please."

"There seems a good chance we're all going to die soon. Especially since our military commanders are the ones who masterminded the cursed  _wight hunt_ that so far has given our enemy its best advantage yet," Sansa scorns. "I'd rather die for the north than for some southern queen. I'll go like Robb did. Like  _our_ mother did. She was right about you- about a bastard's urges and ambitions, you know."

"He's not, though," Bran says suddenly. 

"Not a what?"

"A bastard. You're not Ned Stark's son, Jon. You're not a Snow. Your mother is Lyanna Stark. She died giving birth to you. I saw it in a vision, and your friend Sam, he's here, he found an old record in the Citadel-"

"Then who is my father supposed to be?"

"Rhaegar Targaryen. He didn't kidnap Lyanna. He married her, loved her. Daenerys is your aunt, and your claim to the Iron Thrones takes precendence over her own."

 

***

Jon turned away from Bran's eerie placidity, from Arya's consternation, from whatever Sansa is thinking, he can never tell. He walks away quickly so no one will try to speak to him or hold him back or chase after him. He strides past Daenerys and the dragons and the foreign armies, into the wolfswood. It's like when he was trapped on Dragonstone, or when he was still that hungry new recruit of the Night's Watch, when he would escape to the top of the Wall and watch the tundra and be alone with himself. 

All his life, Jon has been two things: a bastard, and Ned Stark's son. His identity was a contradiction in itself- the most honorable man in Westeros, with a natural son? Yet here Jon was, trying to prove he was more than that, that Lady Catelyn was wrong, that he could be brave and good and worthy of a Stark name. Everything he did was for that reason. And now there is no need to strive for he was a prince, not a Stark at all. His family is not his family. Bran- Arya-  _Sansa_ is no longer his sister. She never was. 

Ghost finds him. He's a welcome presence. He still has his direwolf, he can't be a Targaryen. Jon confesses his litany of sins. "I betrayed my family. My  _true_ family. I appalled the gods, with- with my aunt. The Iron Throne is meant to be mine, and I don't want it. I don't even know how to want it. I appalled the gods with- with my aunt." Ghost doesn't condemn, barely blinking his blood colored gaze. The last separation between wolf and master took place beyond the wall, when Jon had disguised himself as a wilding. Sometimes he'd almost believe he was one, that he could live out his life with a red haired maid and forget the burden of his birth. But Ghost had reminded him of the vows he'd sworn and the things he was meant but had yet to fulfill. The wolf had reminded him of who he was, that winter was coming. Maybe, Jon thinks, if the wolf is still his, then there is still some Stark in him. He can still do right by the man who raised him. 

How much time has passed? Night has spread its wings over the sky, the bones of trees barely distinguishable from the black.  _My dragons will arrive by nightfall._

_***_

 

When he returns to Winterfell, Jon sees the way of things. The armies are restless, unaccustomed to the cold, to the resilience that characterizes the northern people. Jon does not savor the knowledge that soon he will have to plead with the stubborn people of his homeland for forgiveness, but he knows he'll have to. He goes to the front of the legions, to walls of the keep where Daenerys waits with her dragons. Her children. There's another task Jon would sooner avoid, how he'll have to tell her the truth of his birth. But he will, after he deals with more urgent matters.

From a distance, hurrying closer, Jon hears her command in imperious tones, "I have offered you mercy. Bend the knee, and live. Your only other choice is the fate of all traitors- dragonfire."

Sansa is standing in front of the gate to Winterfell, a solitary figure. No Arya, no Bran beside her. "Mercy? I've done nothing wrong. I am daughter of Catelyn Stark and Ned Stark. The blood of the first men runs through my veins. I speak for the north, the Vale, and the Riverlands, who have all rallied behind me, and I will not kneel to a usurper."

"So be it," Daenerys replies, but before she can sound the first syllable of  _Dracarys,_ Jon runs past her. He tears toward Sansa, not unlike when they met at Castle Black, when the only thing he saw was her, and the snow falling. Ghost dashes in Daenerys' direction, snapping and snarling so that even the Dothraki are afraid, putting a halt to her words. Jon steps in front of Sansa to shield her, his back to Daenerys. He holds her, gripping her furs. His face is scant inches from Sansa's, and she's abandoned her queenly composure at his close presence. 

"Jon, what are you doing?"

"The right thing. I swore I would protect you. I'm sorry I'm late."

"I don't need  _protecting-"_

"Not even you're immune from dragonfire, Sansa."

"And what, because you're a Targaryen you think that you are?"

"No, that's not the point!"

Daenerys has gathered herself again from her shock. Her guards form a flank in front of her, keeping Ghost at bay. Drogon and Rhaegal unfurl their wings, shift with ill contained restlessness, huff small jets of flame that sear the snow. "Jon, call off your wolf and move away from the traitor. She's made her choice. You are in the way of your queen dispensing justice."

"Not unless you promise not to harm Sansa, or any people of the north. We can negotiate, but burning people is not the way to get them to work together. Without Starks, we're doomed."

"Jon,  _move_!" 

He refuses. Daenerys glances at her soldiers, seems to consider having him forced, then decides against it. She communicates to her dragons in some way to settle, for they curl up, move closer to her. She holds an impromptu council with Tyrion, who seems to be rather desperately shaking his head and pleading about something, then announces, "For now, we will permit the north to remain as it is until bending the knee can be discussed more thoroughly upon the morn."

Jon has to smile one of his rare, rueful smiles at that. He feels Sansa relax beside him. It might have been imperceptible to others, but he notices her shoulders drop slightly as she exhales. He presses her, "Where are Bran and Arya?"

"Safe, inside Winterfell. I wouldn't let them out here. This was my responsibility." 

At the same time, they both seem to remember that Jon is still somewhat cradling her, and he releases her reluctantly. Sansa doesn't step back. 

"No, it was mine," Jon apologizes. "And I failed you. But I'll make it up to you, Sansa, I swear it. On the old gods, and the new. Can you forgive me?"

"No," she replies simply. The disappointment is like an echo of the pain from the wounds in Jon's chest, the never-quite-healed punctures. Then she smiles benevolently, a sight he feared he'd never see again, and adds, "But I will. Eventually."

"Eventually?"

"Eventually. Come inside, Jon."

**Author's Note:**

> wow I can't believe jon died after choking out littlefinger, so sad, really miss him, I don't know who this "aegon" is but I don't like him


End file.
